


please stand clear of the doors

by dalmatienne



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Blow Jobs, M/M, Millennial Burnout, Public Transportation, WMATA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 20:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalmatienne/pseuds/dalmatienne
Summary: “You’re being dramatic,” Tom says. He waves the waitress over for a refill on his bottomless mimosa. Mikey discovered early on that in DC, brunch is a way of life. “You have a good job, dude. You make more than our friends on the Hill, you have a cushy nine to five office job, you got mad bennies--”“Bennies? Don’t be a douche, bro, just say benefits,” Mikey groans, and rolls his eyes. He slices into his eggs benedict and watches the yolk run. It fills up the bottom of the shallow dish before the English muffin starts to soak it up. “I’m just saying, I think I want something more out of my job.”“Are you telling me you want a fulfilling career? Inthiseconomy?”





	please stand clear of the doors

**Author's Note:**

> If you recognize your name in this story, please, for the love of all things holy and good, click away now. This is entirely a work of fiction.
> 
> me, lives in Caps territory: *writes Avs stuff*  
> me, visits Denver: *writes Caps stuff*
> 
> This is very self-indulgent/a short step away from being a particularly interesting resignation letter/my acknowledgment of how ridiculous the DC young professional ("yo pro" if u will) lifestyle is. Brief warning for the main character not really recognizing his privilege for having a cushy nine to five desk job with a solid salary and good benefits. This is mostly set in spring 2017 but operates on the spring 2016 Caps roster because time is meaningless.
> 
> Shout out to Ellie and Batcat for beta-ing!
> 
> [Is the DC metro on fire?](https://ismetroonfire.com/)

Andre has this theory. It’s a dumb theory, with little to no supporting evidence, just a lot of semi-related observations. All correlation, no proven causation. 

Then again, what else can be expected of a kid with a lit degree?

“I’m serious, you guys,” Andre says as he takes another hit from the joint they’re passing around. “The entire city’s being is bound up in the transportation system.”

“It’s not that deep, dude.” Tommy’s got his sunglasses on to shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun shining directly on the apartment’s balcony. Andre’s lease included a strict no smoking policy, but like fuck were they gonna pass up enjoying the city’s decriminalization decision. 

“A lot of people use the metro, Burky, of course it’s gonna affect their daily lives,” Mikey adds. He leans over and plucks the joint from his friend’s fingers. Andre doesn’t even seem to notice, instead flapping a hand at Tom and Mikey.

“You’re not listening. The city and the metro, they’re intertwined. The city influences the metro, influences the city, influences the metro. They share the same, fuck, the same _andemening_.”

“English, man.”

“Uh, soul? Spirit. But like. Look at when they cleaned up the metro! Suddenly everyone was happier! Even the city streets started looking cleaner.”

Tom takes a pull from the rapidly dwindling joint. “Burky,” he says and stretches out on the plastic lounger he’d recycled from the trash room six months ago. “People are _happy_ when they aren’t surrounded by garbage.”

Both Mikey and Andre glance at the lounger and then up at each other. Mikey thinks Andre appreciates the dramatic irony of it all, but everything’s so hazy and warm that he can’t be sure.

“You have no appreciation for the metaphysical,” Burky eventually sighs sadly, squinting out across Rock Creek Park. His snapback is on backwards. He brings up a hand to shade against the sunlight.

Mikey considers this. “I’m hungry. Let’s get Chipotle.”

Tom stubs out the joint in an old plastic Nats cup and stands. Stretches. “Fuck yeah. Direct deposit just hit on Friday, so I’m getting guac, boys.”

* * *

The theory is obviously bullshit.

Like, if the metro was seriously in sync with the feelings of the hundreds of thousands of people commuting in and out of the city, it would have shut the fuck down on the day after any of the state primaries, or the nomination, or on the countless other days when everyone was too angry and tired to open Twitter on their phones.

If the metro really did feed off the energy of the inhabitants of Washington, DC, there would be a tunnel fire every five seconds, with or without SafeTrack.

* * *

But.

And maybe this is just Mikey, being entitled and self-centered and whatever buzzword the WaPo wants to assign to millennials on any given day, but.

The metro’s been stalling out lately whenever he’s on it. Caught between stations, sitting in the dark stillness of the tunnels or the misty yellow light of the elevated tracks. Stuck behind some other train on the platform in front of it, or delayed by some other mechanical issue.

And Mikey? Well.

* * *

Mikey’s job isn’t glamorous. He answers phones. He balances ledgers. He verifies the information in each of the five databases he has to work out of because his company seriously cannot decide which program is best.

Most days, it feels like Mikey doesn’t do anything but wait: wait for the next phone call, the next email, the next customer to walk through the door when he covers the receptionist’s desk.

He waits for the day Nicky in HR will walk up to him with an offer letter of a new position.

Simultaneously, he waits for the day the company president will walk into his shared cubicle with a final paycheck.

It feels like being stuck on the train, or even like being stuck in traffic on a bus. He has no real power over any of the factors: not the traffic, not the bus driver, not the other passengers.

But that’s it, isn’t it?

Mikey is waiting, and Mikey is stuck.

* * *

“You’re being dramatic,” Tom says. He waves the waitress over for a refill on his bottomless mimosa. Mikey discovered early on that in DC, brunch is a way of life. “You have a good job, dude. You make more than our friends on the Hill, you have a cushy nine to five office job, you got mad bennies--”

“Bennies? Don’t be a douche, bro, just say benefits,” Mikey groans, and rolls his eyes. He slices into his eggs benedict and watches the yolk run. It fills up the bottom of the shallow dish before the English muffin starts to soak it up. “I’m just saying, I think I want something more out of my job.”

“Are you telling me you want a fulfilling career? In _this_ economy?”

“Fuck off, Wilso,” Mikey says and stuffs a forkfull in his mouth. Tom is his friend, his _best_ friend, but something has been slipping between them since Tom was promoted out of Mikey’s department.

Promotion isn’t the right word for it. Tom was recruited by the rental department for his smile and his charm. A born leasing agent, Ovi had declared before sending Tom off to Nicky to sign up for licensing classes and to fill out a new W-9. Mikey was, is, happy for him, honestly.

But.

But Tom found something he was good at, and something he enjoyed, and something that seemed molded to fit him perfectly.

And Mikey is out of his mind with jealousy.

* * *

There’s this guy that’s always on the same train as Mikey in the mornings. He’s handsome, Mike supposes: dark hair gently curling against the collar of a slightly wrinkled white dress shirt, stubble that exists in the small space between artful and sloppy, muscles hiding under ill-fitting suits but revealing themselves in the man’s unwavering balance despite the train’s irregular movement. Mikey doesn’t think about men frequently, not like that, but he sometimes lets himself think about this stranger on the train.

He’s probably a lawyer, or a lobbyist, or one of the many soulless drones who work on the Hill. He would take Mikey to one of the nicer restaurants down by the White House or Dupont, maybe the Prime Rib or Annie’s, and they would make polite conversation. The stranger would talk to him about politics, and Mikey would pretend he knew anything about the field he worked in, making half-hearted comments on the state of the DC rental market. Maybe they would find common ground, and talk about hockey, or dogs, or how much WMATA fucking sucks. They would eat their organic grass-fed steaks and after the second glass of hoppy IPA, the stranger’s ankle would bump against his, and Mikey would tangle their feet together. The stranger would pay for their meal without throwing his money around and then casually ask Mikey if he wanted to go back to his place for coffee. They would Uber back to the stranger’s townhouse in Brightwood. Then the stranger would kiss him, and hold him down, and _touch_ him--

But what really gets Mikey, aside from the sheer size and strength of the man’s hands, is how _tired_ he looks, all the time. There’s something in that existential exhaustion that Mikey identifies with, and that scares the shit out of him.

* * *

All Caps Realty keeps buying out its competition and still can’t pick one database program and stick with it. Mikey juggles calls and emails and toggles between so many tabs in his browser that his computer freezes for five minutes while he’s on the phone with a board president.

The sheer number of clients triples as any chance of getting promoted out of his department dwindles. Mikey’s an _asset_ to the company where he’s at. No one knows the five (six? Did they just get _another_?) databases like he does and Nicky can’t spare him while he’s training new call-ups. 

“What about after the new kids are trained?” Mikey’d asked. There might be a spot open in the finance department and Mikey might’ve failed the only accounting course he had ever taken, but _anything_ has got to be better than his current position.

Nicky’d said they’d discuss it in the leadership meeting that month with this especially unreadable face—indecipherable even for Nicky—and Mikey’d known. He wasn’t going anywhere soon.

* * *

“I don’t like it when you leave work so late. Do you even have to work on a Sunday?”

“I know, mom,” Mikey says, holding the headphone mic close to his mouth as he locks up the office. Usually the door locked automatically behind him, but Mikey’d disarmed the security to work on a weekend and he has to reset it after leaving. “But the company’s growing and I have to make sure all the client ledgers are right. If I don’t do it now, they’ll all just call and give me hell later.”

“Language, Michael,” his mom admonishes warmly enough to make him feel homesick. She quickly ruins that feeling by launching into one of her usual tirades of why he shouldn’t be wandering alone around the big city late at night. “It’s an unsafe neighborhood, Michael,” she insists. Her voice is fuzzy and echoes like she’s got the phone on speaker.

“Mom, it’s not unsafe. I live and work in the gentrified areas of town, I’m fine. Besides, DC isn’t a big city, it’s just a bunch of suburbs pushed together in a swamp. I’m more likely to be attacked by rats than stabbed by some rando.”

His mom makes the same noise she always does when he tells her this, like she doesn’t believe him but she accepts that he’s an adult who can make his own decisions—even if they are bad decisions. Mikey lets her go on about the latest article she read about the crime rate in the District, with a special tangent about a blog she follows that tracks homicides near his office. He tunes her out as he walks the few blocks from the office to the metro station, passing three different coffee shops and the empty steps of an art museum. This late on a Sunday, only Ubers and buses crawl down the street and the sidewalks are empty; even the ubiquitous protestors, tourists, and musicians have gone home.

As he nears the metro stop, he notices one of the metro workers beginning to pull the grating across the entrance. A spike of panic floods his system and he fumbles out his phone to check the time.

10:58 pm.

“Mom, I gotta go, I need to catch the last train.”

Mikey ends the call and sprints to the entrance, fumbling for his metrocard as he squeezes past the worker and the grate. The rubber of the escalator handrail burns as the palm of his hand as he pounds down the escalator steps, the metro worker yelling after him, “Y’better hurry up, son!”

The sign above the metrocard refill kiosks announces that there is one minute until the last train to Glenmont and Mikey doesn’t know how much money he has left on his card, but he doesn’t have enough time to find out. When he swipes through the turnstile he can see the train idling on the platform below him, lights flashing in warning. Just as he makes it to the platform, taking the second set of escalators two steps at a time, the automated voice from the train calls out, “Please stand back, doors closing.”

With a hum and a squeal, the doors close and the last train pulls out of the station before Mikey can even reach it to bang on the sides.

Mikey’s so tired, his eyes blurred by numbers and names and computer screens, he can’t help but feel like the metro is mocking him. Like he just missed his last chance to get out of the customer service department.

“Goddamnit,” growls a voice from behind him. Mikey turns and god. It’s the man Mikey’s been checking out forever. He’s in another wrinkled suit, the hair at his temples curlier than the rest, like he’s been sweating. Maybe from running to catch the train. Maybe from something else. “Why the fuck does the metro close at eleven. Jesus. Fucking WMATA SafeTrack bullshit.”

He says it like a DC resident: wuh-mata.

Mikey pulls out his phone to check rideshare prices and then the balance in his bank account. There goes his lunch money for the rest of the week.

“Hey, kid,” the guy says. Mikey’s eyes fly up to meet the other man’s, dark in the cavernous, empty station. “I’ve seen you on the train before. You live near Takoma?”

“Uh, I guess.”

“You guess,” the guy says mockingly. He taps a few times on his phone and makes a disgusted noise. “Uber’s prices just surged. You wanna split a ride?”

And Mikey doesn’t know this guy aside from a few hundred glances on the train, but it’s this or an hour-long bus ride or shelling out for his own Uber, so—

“Sure.”

They don’t talk or anything, and Mikey has to keep himself from staring at the man the whole time. Mikey went to school for business, not arts or literature, but something about the flash of the streetlights against the man’s dark eyelashes and stubble has Mikey’s pulse pounding. The rideshare drops him off outside his and Tom’s apartment complex and as he’s sliding out of the car, the man says, “Take care, kid.” Before Mikey can even ask his name or, fuck, his number, the car door closes behind him and the driver eases back onto the road. Mikey stares after the car for thirty seconds before he digs out his keys and climbs the steps to his building’s entrance.

Later, as Mikey’s scrolling through his electronic receipt for his ride, he sees it.

_Fare Split - $0.50_

_Paid by Mike - $9.87_

Mike.

Huh.

* * *

Mikey doesn’t mention Mike or their rideshare to Tom.

It’s not even like he’s keeping it a secret, he just doesn’t ever see Tom anymore outside of brunch, and even then Tommy’s started to blow him off for networking events. Their ping pong table goes unused and the only sign that Tom still comes home at night is their slightly dwindling supply of ketchup, impressive considering the three-pack they got during their last visit to Costco. Tom got a shiny new Beamer with his promotion bonus but since his showings never coincide with Mikey’s hours, Mikey can’t even bum rides to work off him.

It, like, fucking blows.

Mikey consoles himself with the thought that city roads are gonna wreck the Beamer’s suspension to shit. It’s petty, but like. Petty is who Mikey is right now.

* * *

Mikey _does_ mention Mike to Andre.

Mikey’s spotting for Andre at the bench press because if you’re a young professional in the District of Columbia and you’re _not_ networking, drinking, working out, or some combination of the three in your free time, what even _are_ you doing?

He looks down at Burky’s sweaty, red face and instead of chirping him for his workout noises, Mikey opens his mouth and says, “What was that theory you had about the metro?”

Andre crosses his eyes at Mikey as he finishes his reps. With Mikey’s help he racks his bar and sits up on the bench. “Theory?”

Mikey huffs. “You know the one. You told me and Willy about it when we were high back in the summer.”

“That was _ages_ ago.”

“Yeah.”

Andre wipes off his sweaty forehead with the bottom of his shirt, flashing his taut stomach and abs to the empty purple gym equipment surrounding them. “You mean when I was talking about how the city and the metro are connected or some shit? Man, I was _so_ high. Why?”

“Forget it.” Mikey hides his blushing cheeks by bullying Andre off the bench to take his place without adjusting the weight. He lifts more than Andre does, but like. He might’ve read somewhere that the reps are what really counts. The reps and getting Andre to drop the subject he idiotically brought up.

“No, man, you made fun of me when I brought it up the first time. You don’t get to bring it up again and wave it off without consequences. Now spill.”

He latched his hands on the bar and bears down so Mikey can’t start his reps. After a silent struggle of wills and upper body strength, Mikey sighs and goes limp on the bench. It’s cold and tacky with dried sweat against Mikey’s back.

“So there’s this guy—”

“And you fucked him on the metro?”

“What?” Mikey splutters. “What, no. Why is that the first thing that comes to your mind? Have _you_ ever fucked someone on the metro?”

“What happens in sophomore year stays in sophomore year.”

“That is absolutely not how that goes, what the fuck dude?”

Andre waves him off with a flick of his wrist, that baby face of his betraying nothing. “Hakuna Matata,” he says as if that makes any sense. He shoves at Mikey until there’s enough room for both of them to sit on the bench, knees pressing against each other like they’re sharing secrets at a slumber party. “Now back to your metro dreamboat. Is he tall, muscle-y? Is he going to sweep you away from your dull, dull life of administrative assistance?”

Mikey winces but says, “He’s about my height, I guess. A couple years older. I think he might be a lawyer or a lobbyist, and his hands—” Mikey flushes at Andre’s leer and coughs. “I see him all the time on my trains and it feels like, I don’t know, like the metro is pushing us together.”

Andre raises an eyebrow at him.

Tinny pop music plays over the gym speakers as Mikey is forced to consider the bullshit he just said.

“Well now that I say it out loud, it sounds pretty dumb. We just have the same commute and we only shared a ride that one time because the metro fucked us over—” 

“Hold up. You shared a ride? Did you blow him in the Uber?”

“ _Oh my god_.”

“What? It’s a valid question!”

“I worry about you if you’re having this much sex on public transportation, bro.”

“Do Ubers count as public transportation?” The worst part of this is that Andre looks genuinely curious, like this is an actual question Andre needs to know the answer to, and Jesus, who even _are_ Mikey’s friends.

“Shut up, never mind. Now get off my bench,” Mikey says and shoves at Andre who tenaciously maintains his perch.

“No, no, no, I am not letting you sweep this under the rug. So you keep seeing this guy on the metro, even when the metro fucks up?”

“ _Especially_ when the metro fucks up,” Mikey concedes.

Andre blinks his big brown eyes and twists his mouth up in thought. As dumb as the situation is in the bright light of the gym, Mikey’s glad Andre is giving it some consideration.

“Well. As you and Willy keep telling me, life isn’t some college literature course. There isn’t always special meaning behind a door being painted red or the metro running late. But,” he says as Mikey rolls his eyes, “maybe it does mean something that you keep running into this guy on the metro. Less two ships passing in the night, more, uh, two trains colliding on the track?” Mikey snorts and Andre elbows him. “Motherfucker, I’m trying to make you feel better. You should talk to him. What’s this guy’s name, anyway?”

The ceiling isn’t particularly interesting when Mikey rolls his eyes up to look at—just the usual grey-and-white speckled panels—it but it’s better than looking at Andre’s smug as shit face when Mikey mumbles, “Mike.”

There’s a telling pause, and then,

“You narcissistic fucker.”

“Shut up,” Mikey says, and shoves him off the bench.

* * *

It’s not that Mikey doesn’t try to talk to the guy, to Mike, it’s just that. Well.

Okay, so he doesn’t try.

He’s exhausted and frustrated and it feels like every day a new coworker comes up to him to yell at him for some problem that isn’t even his fault. Nicky’s grooming the new kids for the finance department, not the customer service department, so not only is Mikey not getting that promotion, he’s not getting the help he was promised.

All Mikey wants to do on his commute is stare out the windows at the yellow lights flashing through the dark tunnels and forget he exists for twenty minutes, two times a day.

* * *

All Caps doesn’t do bonuses. Or, maybe they do, but not for Mikey’s department or paygrade. It sucks, but the executives try to make up for it by hosting a happy hour once or twice a quarter.

Mikey used to have fun at these happy hours. He and Tom’d get frat-boy wasted on the company’s dime, sharing gossip with the receptionist and trading college stories with the other guys their age in the entry level positions. These days, Tom spends the whole happy hour with the rental department, laughing at Kuzy’s jokes with Ovi’s arm slung around his shoulders. Mikey’s suddenly adrift, a train caught between stations, a bus stuck behind a never-ending motorcade. He doesn’t want to hang out with the rest of his department but the association managers all seem so much older and experienced.

So, he drinks two or three too many free cocktails by the bar, wedged between Nicky’s new financials kids, and tries not to drown in self-pity in the too-bright, fake-industrial bar Brooks must have picked out.

The financials kids--Mikey should probably try to learn their names, but that seems like a commitment to the company Mikey doesn’t feel like making at the moment--try to talk to him. They’re so earnest and eager to make friends and _connections_ but all Mikey can do is grunt at them and glare over at Tommy across the bar. The kids go silent and eventually leave him to go talk to the IT nerds.

Mikey stares into his cocktail for some undeterminable period of time before a heavy hand clasps him on the shoulder and a body slides into the seat next to him. He drags his eyes up to take in the friendly, open face of a property manager from one of the smaller companies All Caps bought out. Justin, he somehow wrings out of his alcohol-soaked brain. Justin Williams, from Coast 2 Coast Property Management.

“You good over here, kid?” Justin asks in this fatherly way that should grate on Mikey’s nerves but just makes him feel lonely and vulnerable. “Guys your age should be a lot happier about a free happy hour, like Willy over there.”

Mikey must make a face because Justin’s eyebrows furrow and he turns to take in Tom laughing with the entire rental department.

“Oh,” he says, and Mikey is torn between wanting to sink into the floorboards and wanting to press into the comfort of Justin’s hand still resting on his shoulder. He settles for the safe middle of downing the rest of his drink. “Oh bud,” Justin says again. “Do you, uh. Did…”

Justin trails off uncertainly but Mikey, as tipsy as he is, can read between the lines.

“I didn’t want the promotion he got, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says, very careful to not meet Justin’s warm brown eyes. He focuses instead on the salt and pepper around the older man’s jaw, which isn’t particularly safer. “Rental shit, it’s not for me. And being an association manager sounds like the fucking worst.” Mikey glances up at Justin’s raised eyebrows. “No offense.”

“None taken. It’s not for everyone.”

They sit quietly, Justin watching their coworkers mingle as Mikey tries to get the bartender’s attention. Once Mikey’s got his new drink, Justin turns back to him, running a hand through his shaggy dark curls.

“Well, kid, if you don’t want to be in rentals, or association management, or customer service, what department do you want to work in? Financials?”

Mikey feels his mouth twist and look, he _knows_ he shouldn’t talk about how much he hates his job and how much he doesn’t like the company with a coworker but he’s drunk and he’s _tired_ and Justin is giving him this patented Dad Look and Mikey just can’t help it.

“Oh, bud, “ Justin says. “You’re young. You’ll figure it out.”

* * *

Justin cuts him off alcohol for the rest of the night and after an hour and two glasses of water he bundles Mikey up and sends him home. He tries to call Mikey a cab, but Mikey can only handle so many blows to his pride in one night. So Mikey waves goodbye to him, nods at the finances kids, and walks out the door. He doesn’t even try to catch Tom’s eye.

The bar isn’t too far from the metro, just a few blocks. It’s late enough, and DC nightlife is boring enough on a Thursday, that the sidewalks are empty aside from a few other twenty- or thirty-somethings making their way to the next bar. Mikey breathes out and watches the mist float up into the night sky tinted orange from the light of the city and NoVa. He stops in front of the metro and fists his pass in his slacks pocket.

“Once more unto the breach,” he mutters out loud to himself and thinks that Andre would be proud of him for remembering the quote correctly. At least, he would be if Andre himself remembered the quote correctly.

He steps onto the escalator and descends into the station.

There’s a train idling on the tracks when Mikey swipes in, and with the next train fifteen minutes away, Mikey sprints down the next escalator and down the station. After nearly falling through the doors to the last car as they slide closed, he collapses in the first empty seat he sees and closes his eyes against the way the world spins around him.

“Jeez, kid, what lit a fire under your ass?”

Mikey’s eyes fly open and he stares at the other man, at _Mike_ , sitting in the seat across from him. He looks as good to Mikey as ever, his navy suit jacket in a pile on the seat next to him and his light grey checked sleeves rolled up to expose the wiry strength of his forearms. His tie is gone, the collar unbuttoned to show the vulnerable shadow of his Adam's apple. Purple bags are visible under his eyes.

Throat suddenly dry, Mikey swallows hard enough to make a clicking sound.

“I, uh, didn’t want to have to wait for the next train.”

“You youngsters and your instant gratification,” Mike says with a roll of his eyes. There’s a bite to his words and the statement hangs in a weird limbo between teasing and frustration.

“Youngsters?” Mikey struggles upright. “You can’t be that much older than me, asshole.”

“Yeah, kid? What are you, twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Practically an infant,” Mike sneers dismissively and melts further into a slouch, his thick thighs spread wide into the neighboring seats.

Those three words hit Mikey unexpectedly hard, digging at where he’s soft and vulnerable. Mikey jams his hands into his pockets and turns away from Mike, pressing his flushed cheek to the cool of the train window. His feet drag against the old carpeting of the train car, stained gray and worn bare by years of commuters.

The train stops at two stations and people get off at each one, leaving Mikey and Mike as the only passengers in their car. After the conductor mumbles what might be the name of the next station, Mikey’s attention is drawn back to Mike when the other man lets out an explosive sigh. When he turns back to him, Mike is bent forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he scrubs at his face. There’s that existential exhaustion again.

“Look, kid,” he mumbles through his fingers, “it’s been a rough week, I’m sorry—”

“Mikey.”

Mike looks at him sharply and Mikey flushes again, the remaining alcohol in his bloodstream turning his words syrupy and thick.

“Michael Latta. Mikey. That’s my name. You gotta stop calling me kid, man.”

The laugh he gets in return is disbelieving and shaky. “Mikey, huh? My name’s Mike, too. Mike Richards. My friends call me Ritchie.” Mike—or maybe Ritchie? Mikey’s too tipsy and unsure of himself to know if the man’s dropping a hint here—the man’s smile goes wry, like he’s making fun of himself. Like he doesn’t really have friends or like he’s thinking of one friend in particular.

There’s a familiar ear-popping sensation as the train exits Union Station and goes above ground. Mikey watches out the window just behind Ritchie as the buildings of North Capitol Street and NoMa fly by. Lit up windows dot the condominiums and office buildings, the lights blurring into yellow smears against the grey-black of commercial façades as the train rushes onward. Mikey’s eyes jump from one blue signal light to next, focusing on street lights, empty parking towers, anything to keep from staring too long at Ritchie’s lips and jawline.

As the train pulls out of the Rhode Island Avenue station, Mikey gathers enough courage to say, “We’ve met before, you know. We shared an Uber a month ago after we missed the last train,” he adds when Ritchie raises his eyebrows at him. 

“Huh, no shit? Yeah, I guess so. So you’re Michael.”

Mikey doesn’t have anything to say to that but he does throw out his hands in sad jazz fingers, “that’s me” _ta-dah_ sort of way. It earns him a snort that falls just short of laughter, but the air between them feels much less hostile than before.

They ride in silence for the next few stops, Mikey desperately trying to come up with new ways to keep Ritchie talking before he steps off this train and right back out of Mikey’s life.

“Wanna grab a drink” is on the tip of Mikey’s tongue when, just after they leave the Fort Totten station, the train jolts. A high pitched shrieking rends the air as metal grinds against metal, sparks lighting like fireflies just outside the windows. Mikey’s caught off balance and nearly thrown out of his seat while Ritchie throws a hand out to brace himself against a plexiglass divider. The train shudders forward a few yards before stopping entirely. The long overhead lights flicker off for ten seconds before coming back in pairs, a sudden humming filling the car. Static erupts over the intercom before a voice mumbles,

“This metrotrain is encountering a few electrical issues. We have alerted our maintenance team but we will be stuck on the track until they arrive and assess the situation. The train will be moving momentarily. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

With a final burst of static, the intercom goes quiet, leaving the train silent other than the gentle hum of the lights and the filtered sounds of the service roads near the track. Mikey stares up at the intercom and blinks twice before groaning.

“Fuck my life!”

“I know this is a real inconvenience for you, Michael, but this does affect other people—”

“No I mean, fuck, this _is_ my life!” Mikey jumps from his seat and begins to pace in tight circles, like he’s trying to outrun his new realization but he can’t since he’s stuck on a fucking _stalled out train_. “Caught in between stations, just sitting on the track as other trains go by, going fucking nowhere. _I’m_ going nowhere. Fuck,” he hiccups, voice cracking, “I’m going fucking nowhere.”

He has to sit back down and put his head between his knees to keep from hyperventilating or like, fuck, crying.

A bunch of people have their breakdowns on the metro, but Mikey never thought he’d be one.

There’s an awkward pause as he tries to get a grip on himself before Ritchie coughs. Mikey hears a shuffle of fabric before Ritchie settles himself on the edge of the seat next to Mikey and places a warm palm against the center of his back.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to pull any older-and-wiser shit, no fatherly-experience crap, just rubs at Mikey’s back until he’s breathing normally. Mikey sits back up and rubs at his eyes. Ritchie’s arm ends up stretched out behind his back.

“Sorry, man,” he says, “you don’t need some drunk kid freaking out on you about his career while WMATA shits the bed.”

“I don’t,” Ritchie agrees but doesn’t make to move away. He doesn’t say anything else for a while and they just breathe together.

This is the closest Mikey’s been to anybody since Tom got too busy for their Bachelor-and-cuddle nights a few weeks back. It feels good, and not just because Mikey’s been jerking off to Ritchie for months. No one told Mikey how lonely his mid-twenties were going to be. No one told him a loose hug from a stranger in a humid metro car would feel this necessary.

Across the aisle, Mikey can see their reflections in the train window, lit up against the darkness. The reflection is distorted, either from the shitty quality of window glass or from the way that life inside a metro car is always a little distorted. The patches of stubble on his and Ritchie’s cheeks look like bruises and their eyes look hollow. Mikey’s paler than he thought he was, too much time in the office and not enough out on a lake or on the Mall or just plain _outside_. Against the paleness of his skin, his hair looks like a printer ink spill on brand new copy paper.

He looks tired and, fuck, empty. What a fucking cliche of a millennial he’s turned out to be.

“I’m a lawyer,” Ritchie says out of nowhere. 

“That’s nice?”

“Shut up, kid, I’m trying to impart an important life lesson or some shit. Anyway, I’m a lawyer. Studied hard, passed the bar in Canada, moved to Philly, and had to do it all over again. You’ve got some bullshit legal technicalities in this country of yours.”

“I’m Canadian too. Sorry,” he says as Ritchie frowns at him for the second interruption. 

“I put in fucking years at a law firm in Philly when out of fucking nowhere, they decided I wasn’t partner-track. They offered me a pink slip or a transfer to a sister office in LA, so I packed up my shit and moved cross-fucking-country. Had to start all over again to earn my credentials and establish myself at this new firm and what do I have to show for it? We won a few big cases, lost another few, and I got the boot for real. Never made partner. Obviously,” he says with a twist of his mouth, staring at his reflection in the dark window. “A buddy of mine called me up with a consulting opportunity here in DC so I took him up on it. A year-long contract is better than living out of the family lake house, fishing and avoiding my parents’ disappointed looks.”

Ritchie nods to himself, as if punctuating his speech. Mikey stares at his profile, taking in his messy dark stubble, his tired amber eyes in the harsh fluorescent light, the one Superman curl that falls across his forehead. 

“Thanks, man, for the, like, tragic backstory, but what, uh. What was the point of that?”

Ritchie turns to give him an incredulous look and Mikey sucks in a breath at how unexpectedly close their faces are. Ritchie blinks, leans back some. He doesn’t remove the arm against Mikey’s back. 

“The _point_ ,” Ritchie says, like he can’t believe he’s spending his Thursday night babysitting a burned out millennial, “is that what you’re feeling is normal. Or, maybe not normal. Common. A lot of people feel that way. You try your hardest, you do all the shit people tell you to, and you still fail. You never end up where you want. Or if you do end up there, you find out it doesn’t make you happy, and you failed that way too. The world’s full of stalled trains, Mikey, the key is to fool everyone else into thinking you’re still chugging along like one of those fancy Japanese bullet trains.”

With a violent shudder and more metallic screeching, the train lurches into motion, as if inspired by Ritchie’s bleak and somewhat depressing speech. The conductor’s voice comes over the intercom with a fresh wave of static, mumbling,

“Red line metrorail passengers, thank you for your patience. Next stop, Takoma Station.”

“Thank God,” Ritchie mutters. He turns back to Mikey. “My pep talk help you, kid?”

“Not really,” Mikey says, a half truth. There’s a certain amount of validation that comes with knowing he isn’t the only one who feels the way he does, that even older people struggle with a lasting sense of accomplishment.

Fucking awful if that’s actually the case, but. The validation is nice. 

“You’re a mess, kid,” Ritchie says and reaches his hand up to scrub through Mikey’s short hair. It feels good. 

Mikey can’t decide if he wants to turn that back on Ritchie or remind him he’s not a kid but what actually comes out of his mouth is, “You wanna get a drink?”

The train glides to a stop at Takoma. Ritchie looks at him for a long moment, considering. He stands up, grunting when his knees pop, and reaches over to grab his forgotten suit jacket. Without breaking eye contact with Mikey, he leans against one of the poles and waits for the doors to open.

“I have to get home and let my dog out,” he finally says, just as the doors gently ping and slide open.

“Oh.”

“You want to come back to mine and have a beer or two?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says breathlessly, that sounds good. They slip off the train just as the doors start to close.

* * *

Ritchie’s renting a sweet little townhouse a few blocks away from the station, one with two stories and a fenced in post stamp of a backyard. It’s tan, with navy trimming. There’s a butterfly welcome flag hanging from the mailbox which Ritchie doesn’t offer any explanation for.

Anticipation and excitement thrum through Mikey’s veins as he follows Ritchie up the stairs to the front porch. As Ritchie fiddles with the keys in the lock, part of Mikey expects to be thrown up against the door and ravaged as soon as they cross the threshold. A shiver makes its way across his body as he imagines the rough scrape of Ritchie’s stubble across his neck, his chest…

All that happens when Ritchie finally pushes the door open, though, is a dog. It bounds across the wood floor like an excited shadow, nails clicking against the flooring and tail thumping against the walls of the narrow hallway. Ritchie goes to one knee to greet the big black lab that throws itself into his arms. 

“Hey buddy, you miss me? You had a good day?”

The dog woofs quietly and stretches its neck to lick at Ritchie’s cheek. He laughs and plants a kiss on the dog’s forehead and like. Mikey needs a moment to recalibrate here.

Ritchie tilts his head up to look at Mikey and says, “My dog, Arnold. We’ve been together a while. He’s, uh. He’s my stability.” He turns away and to the dog, he adds, “Bud, this is Mikey. He’s a kid in a crisis but he’s nice enough. Be good.”

Arnold looks up at Mikey and woofs once more before turning back and leading the way further into the townhouse. Mikey closes the door behind him and follows.

Ritchie tells him to just throw his stuff anywhere and get comfortable on the couch while he lets Arnold out to the backyard and grabs something to drink. Mikey shrugs out of his All Caps pullover—another Christmas bonus substitute—and trails Ritchie to the kitchen. The man is bent over and rummaging in the fridge and Mikey suddenly doesn’t know what he’s doing. In general, but also, like, here especially. He must make a sound because Ritchie unfolds from in front of the fridge and hands him a Gatorade with a twitch of his lips that could almost be a smile.

“Sorry kid, this is all I have for a Thursday night.”

Mikey’s not disappointed. How could he be when Ritchie’s leading him back to the couch with a hand against his back, their legs brushing together?

Ritchie deposits him on the couch—an actual leather sofa, not just a cheap college futon like what he and Tom have—and tosses a remote at him.

“Try to find a hockey game, eh?” he says, and goes up the narrow stairs to the next floor.

It takes a bit for Mikey to figure out how to turn on the television and the cable box and then to change the channel to the NHL network. It’s late enough that only west coast home teams are playing so Mikey turns the volume down on the Ducks-Canucks game and gets up to wander around the living room.

There’s not a lot of decoration. Mikey can appreciate that since he and Tom never put that much effort into their own place, and he isn’t too sure what the lease says about nails in the walls, but at least they have a poster or two, a few Caps game pucks sitting on an end table, things hanging around to make it look like actual humans live in the apartment. Ritchie’s place is...barren isn’t the right word for it, but it’s also not the wrong word for it.

A few dog toys litter the room, half on the hardwood, half on the grey and black rug beneath the coffee table and couch. Aside from the light fixtures and the espresso-colored entertainment center, the walls are empty. There are hardly any knick-knacks on the entertainment center, just a television and a cable and a single silver frame. Mikey’d thought seeing Ritchie’s place would give him some insight to the other man, and maybe it does because it all seems so.

Empty.

“You’re not very good at sitting still, are you?”

Mikey turns away from the one framed photograph on the entertainment center—Ritchie with his arm around a tall blond guy, both wearing shades and matching grins, grasping golf clubs—to look back at Ritchie on the stairs. He’s changed out of his suit and into soft-looking sweats and a worn Phillies shirt. Mikey feels overdressed in his polo and khakis.

“Nope,” Mikey says, and keeps looking around while Ritchie goes to let Arnold back in and feed him.

By the time Ritchie gets back to the living room, the Ducks are up by one and Mikey has returned to his corner of the couch, sipping at his Gatorade. He feels sober now but he can’t help the ways his eyes trail along the lines of Ritchie’s body when he sprawls out in the other corner of the couch. Arnold hops up and curls into a ball on the cushion between them, laying his head on Ritchie’s thigh.

“You a Canucks fan?” Ritchie asks, tipping his Gatorade towards the television.

Mikey shakes his head. “Ontario boy, born and raised.”

Ritchie makes a noise and when Mikey turns to look at him he has his head tipped back against the sofa and looking back at Mikey with his eyebrows raised. “Ontario, huh? I’m from Kenora.”

“Kitchener,” Mikey says. “My family’s still there.”

They watch the rest of that period and the next in silence, the level of their Gatorade going lower and lower until they make hollow sounds when placed on the coffee table. The broadcast goes to commercial break during the second intermission and Mikey considers throwing in the towel, gathering his coat and the remainder of his dignity and seeing himself out. Then he hears Ritchie say to himself, just barely audible, “Fuck it.”

Mikey turns back to him in time to see him nudge Arnold off the couch and reach across the gap between them to rest his hand against the side of Mikey’s neck.

“You better not be leading me on, kid,” he mutters, and leans in.

The feel of stubble rasping against his cheeks isn’t a brand new sensation, hasn’t been since that one frat party junior year, but the fact that it’s _Ritchie’s_ stubble makes Mikey gasp as Ritchie presses in closer. Their lips catch, dry despite living in a virtual swamp. It takes no time for the kiss to turn hotter and deeper, Mikey opening up to Ritchie and leaning into him like there’s nothing else holding him up.

And Ritchie’s shorter than him by an inch or so but when Ritchie slides a hand into his hair and tugs, Mikey feels so small. He fists his hands in that worn Phillies shirt and pulls, wanting to close that last gap between them.

“C’mon,” he groans, voice catching as Ritchie’s lips slide along his cheek and start leaving kisses along his jaw. “Get closer.”

“Easy, babe,” Ritchie says against his ear, voice deep enough to send shivers through Mikey’s body. “We’ve got time.”

Mikey turns until their mouths meet again, lips parting as Ritchie licks in.

They kiss for long minutes, lips sliding together with wet sounds that are muffled by the distant sounds of the hockey commentators. Ritchie’s hand trails along the hem of Mikey’s shirt, pushing up until just the tips of his fingers brush against his skin. Impatient, Mikey starts tugging at Ritchie’s shirt. With one last biting kiss, Ritchie pulls away and lets Mikey strip him of his Phillies shirt. He’s wiry, lean with muscle that has the potential to be bulked up again. Mikey’s caught between the urge to put his mouth all over Ritchie immediately and the necessity of getting them both as naked as possible. Going on the assumption that once he accomplishes the latter he can do the former, he pulls away to take off his own, the tight collar catching on his ears.

“Jesus, you’re built,” Ritchie murmurs, running both palms over Mikey’s shoulders and down to his biceps, where they squeeze appreciatively. “You could really fucking throw me around if you wanted.” He leans in and bites down Mikey’s neck. Mikey gasps, his dick jumping in his khakis. His hands go for the waistband of Ritchie’s sweatpants, wrist bumping up against where his dick is tenting the fabric.

Ritchie stops him with a hand around his wrist and says, “I’m too old for handjobs on my couch.” He disentangles himself from Mikey and gets up, heading for the stairs.

It takes Mikey a few seconds for his brain to catch up with what’s going on, but he’s up and behind Ritchie as soon as it does, finally getting a handful of that ass he’s been daydreaming of for _months._

“You can’t be that much older than me, dude,” he says and squeezes. He’s rewarded with a hitch in Ritchie’s breath and a slap to his hand. “You’re like what, mid-thirties? Besides, no one’s too old for handjobs on a couch.”

“You’re bad with ages, _bro_. And that couch cost more than you make in a month, so if I say no handjobs on the couch, I mean no handjobs on the couch. Accept it or the only hand you’ll get on your dick tonight is your own.”

When they get to the bedroom, Ritchie sits on the bed, his legs spread wide, his dick pressing up against the thin cotton sweatpants. There’s no way he’s wearing underwear. Mikey feels his mouth begin to water even as he’s frozen in the doorway. The look Ritchie sends him is somehow both smoldering and disinterested.

“Well?” he asks when he sees Mikey still caught in the threshold. “It’s not gonna suck itself.”

The door makes a faint click as it closes behind him and it takes Mikey four steps before he’s falling to his knees between Ritchie’s spread legs. He tentatively runs the palms of his hands up and down the tops of Ritchie’s thighs, feeling the warmth and the strength beneath them and trying to hide how much he’s shaking.

“Hey.”

Mikey looks up and Ritchie’s face is doing this thing like he’s trying to come across as sympathetic but mostly looks like he really wants his dick sucked.

“You ever do this before?”

And Mikey has to roll his eyes and get the fuck over himself because he can handle Mike Richards being mean to him in passing or holding him while he has a breakdown on a fucking metro. But treating him with kid gloves like he’s some gaybie on his first night out at Town Dance Boutique?

Mikey will not stand for this. Or kneel.

He reaches up, pulls Ritchie’s dick out of his sweatpants, and before he can get caught up in the look and heft of Ritchie’s dick in his hand, he leans in and sucks the head into his mouth.

Mikey loses himself in sucking Ritchie’s dick: closes his eyes and goes for it. He feels a hand in his hair, not pulling, just. There. He feels himself get harder as he goes deeper, his lips meeting the circle of his fingers along the shaft. Ritchie doesn’t say anything, just groans deep in his throat when Mikey does something he likes. Mikey tries to do something he likes a lot. Ritchie shifts his hips but never thrusts up, which is nice of him, Mikey guesses, but not really what he wants. He bobs down further and lets go of the shaft to tug at Ritchie’s hips with both hands.

“Yeah?” Ritchie grunts and begins moving his hips in earnest. “You like that?”

Humming, his hips thrusting into nothing as he tries to eke out some friction from his shitty khakis he’s still stupidly wearing, all Mikey can do is let his jaw drop wider.

Sucking dick isn’t like riding a bicycle, but it isn’t that hard to remember how to let his throat go loose as Ritchie pushes in deep, deep, deep. He takes one hand off Ritchie’s hips and presses it against his own dick, caught between seeking _more_ and trying to hold back. He can feel saliva dripping down his chin and neck and he knows his eyelashes are stuck together in wet clumps, but this is the closest he’s felt to doing a job well done in _months_.

“Babe,” Ritchie says, voice still scratchy and deep, thigh going shaky under Mikey’s palm. Blinking slowly, Mikey looks up at him: the high flush on his cheeks, his disheveled dark hair, his heaving chest and the dusting of dark chest hair on it. He looks like something straight out of one of Mikey’s wet dreams and he can’t help but press his hand harder against his dick and groan.

“Mike, Mikey. Babe,” Ritchie pants again, “pull off, I’m going to—”

And Mikey does, getting a hand on him to jerk him the rest of the way. Ritchie’s entire body seizes up and he drops his head back and groans as he comes. Mikey can’t keep his eyes off Ritchie’s dick as he shoots off, how thick and red it is, how perfectly it seems to fit in his hand. He keeps his hand moving until Ritchie grasps at his wrist and pulls him off before collapsing back on the bed.

Mikey looks at the sticky mess on his hand, makes a face, and wipes it off on Ritchie’s sweatpants.

“You’re a menace, kid,” Ritchie groans from further up the bed.

“Yep.”

Mikey stands and stretches, wincing as his knees pop. He unbuttons his khakis and pulls down the zip. In one motion he pushes down his pants and boxers, kicking them off one foot at a time before crawling onto the bed and straddling Ritchie’s thighs. His dick bobs out in front of him, wet at the tip, and he palms it as he stares down at Ritchie.

“You gonna just lie there while I jerk myself off?”

“Wait a minute while I catch my breath, Jesus,” Ritchie says, giving Mikey a sharp slap to the thigh. His dick twitches in his grasp and he groans. “This is what I was talking about when I said you millennials were obsessed with instant gratification.”

“Newsflash, asshole, you’re a millennial, too.”

Ritchie’s eyes fly open and he flashes Mikey a surprisingly open smirk.

“Guess so,” he says and with a twist of his hips, Mikey is flat on his back with Ritchie leaning over him, pressing him into the mattress with those broad hands on his shoulders. Mikey cranes his head up until Ritchie meets him in a kiss that’s almost playful. Ritchie presses him harder into the mattress and Mikey can’t help the way his hips jerk up, his dick smearing against Ritchie’s stomach.

“Please,” he whispers against Ritchie’s lips when they pull back to pant. Ritchie glances down at his dick and raises an eyebrow at him before, with one last parting kiss, beginning to bite and kiss his way down Mikey’s body. He pays careful attention to Mikey’s shoulders and the meat of his chest, and as he reaches Mikey’s stomach, he groans.

“Jeez, kid, you some kind of gym rat?”

Mikey laughs, breathless and horny and seconds from dying of blue balls, and says, “Do you even lift, bro?”

Ritchie smacks his thigh again, says, “If you call me _bro_ one more time while I go down on you, I _will_ bite your dick off,” and proceeds to give Mikey the best blow job of his _life._

It’s all heat and suction and the scratch of Ritchie’s stubble against his inner thighs and the way Ritchie is holding him down so hard he couldn’t move if he wanted to, and believe him, he does _not_ want to. Mikey makes the mistake of looking down at Ritchie and catching his dark eyes staring back at him, his pink lips stretched around his dick, and Mikey has to look away before he embarrasses himself.

Then Ritchie reaches down to play with his balls and Mikey is done. Finished. This train has reached the end of the track and is out of service, please exit the train and move down the station. Thank you for riding Mikey-rail.

Ritchie pulls off coughing and Mikey can’t even feel bad because god _damn_ if that orgasm didn’t actually make him _feel_ something for the first time in forever.

“A _fucking_ menace, kid,” Ritchie reiterates once he’s cleared his throat, hovering over Mikey with a look that’s half annoyance, half something else. Something that makes it look like he’s seconds away from smiling.

“Yep,” Mikey says again and Ritchie rolls his eyes and smacks his thigh a third time before getting out of bed to clean up in the bathroom.

* * *

Afterward, they’re lying in Ritchie’s bed, shoulders brushing. Mikey feels tired, but in a good way, like he earned it. Beside him, Ritchie must be dozing off, or about to: his eyes are closed, dark eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and between his eyebrows smoothed out.

“Train hopping,” Mikey says.

The wrinkles come back in full force between Ritchie’s eyebrows as he frowns. He rubs his face into the pillow and turns so only one eye is looking at Mikey through the dusky darkness. 

“...what?”

“Train hopping, isn’t that a thing? If my train stalls out, can’t I just...hop onto another that’s going someplace else?”

There’s a long period of silence before Ritchie groans and buries his face in the pillow once more.

“Kid,” he says, muffled through the layers of cotton and down, “I can be your hookup _or_ your career advisor, and I am only barely qualified to be one of those things.”

When Mikey stays quiet, Ritchie eventually turns back to him, his mouth pinched. “Fine,” he says, and props himself on his elbow so that he’s slightly looking over Mikey. The sheets pool at his waist and the edge of his shoulder and the curls of his hair glow yellow in the forgotten light of the bathroom. “Let’s talk about train hopping. 

“Train hopping is, in this exhausted metaphor you keep using for your life, a _thing_. Most people wait until they’re at a station to make a transfer. Some people wait until they’re told what transfer to make. I was told to go to LA, so I fucking did. Follow the map, red line to Gallery Place for a transfer to the green and yellow, blah blah blah.”

“What if I’m not at a station?”

“Jeez, this is getting old,” Ritchie says even as he leans down to bite at Mikey’s neck. Mikey gasps and weaves a hand into his thick curls. “Train hopping between stations,” Ritchie mumbles against his neck, “is stupid, dangerous, scary, and, I guess in your weird metaphor, necessary sometimes. So sure, bud, hop this train if you see a better one coming. Catch one to Chicago, Arizona, New Jersey. Actually, no.” He raises his head to look Mikey in the eyes. “If you’re gonna take my advice on one thing, make it this: don’t go to Jersey. That place is the corporate armpit of America.”

Mikey nods and does his best to pull Ritchie on top of him. “What about China?”

“If you get the visa, then sure, kid, China too. Just watch out for the third rail, or whatever. Hey, bud, I’m not that young, I don’t think I can go again tonight,” he says from where Mikey’s finally got him situated, like a cranky Canadian gravity blanket pressing Mikey into the mattress.

“It’s not like that,” Mikey says and can’t hold back a groan when Ritchie nudges a thigh up against where he’s starting to get hard again. “It’s not, just…”

Ritchie eyes him up when Mikey trails off. His lips thin before he sighs gustily and reaches up to scrub at Mikey’s hair again. “You staying the night, then, kid?”

And Mikey knows that common hookup etiquette says he shouldn’t, says he should thank Ritchie, get dressed, half-heartedly ask for his number, say goodbye to his dog, and order himself an Uber back home.

But.

But Mikey is tired and still riding the high of endorphins trickling through his bloodstream, and Ritchie’s finally gone lax enough to press him into the mattress just right.

So he shakes his head and says, “I’m going to call in sick tomorrow.”

Ritchie shrugs like he doesn’t care but the light of the bathroom catches off his lips when they curl up in a smile, like they’re sharing a private joke. 

In the distance, a cargo train chugs northward. A lone, sad train horn and the clicking of metal on the tracks echo in the night before fading into nothingness. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still bitter that my favorite brunch place shut down. It's been three years and not a Sunday goes by that I don't miss it.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr is here.](http://dalmatienne.tumblr.com/)


End file.
